The Yield

We harvested beers in the field behind the house,
Picking them out of the cowed hedges
With morning frost still sparkling on their
Inviolate, shining shells
Weighed in the hand for soundness,
Turned over and under for blemishes.
A gaudy cornucopia of cheap imports
Abandoned or salted
By cold, tired teenagers
Beaten by six cans of Czech.
We hauled them off in canvas
And left them, half-forgotten, in the garage
Until a dry night, out we go
Into the bag
Select a likely label, like an apple
And wash it under the tap, like an apple
And let it into a glass
(feigning hygiene)
And raise a toast
To the cold, tired teenagers.